


the secret ingredient

by readerie



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Gen, Irondad, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Pancakes, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, family traditions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-11 21:40:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19934920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/readerie/pseuds/readerie
Summary: A father-son tradition, passed on through three fathers.ORPeter makes pancakes with his dad every Sunday.





	the secret ingredient

Every Sunday morning, Peter and his dad would make pancakes.

It started as soon as he was old enough to start eating real food. Of course a baby couldn’t help much, but he provided moral support by sitting in his high chair and cooing at the shiny measuring cups as his dad added the ingredients to the mixing bowl. Peter loved the end result of his dad’s hard work; he would mash the pancake into tiny pieces on the tray of his high chair and shovel the mush into his mouth, getting spit-covered pancake crumbs everywhere.

As Peter grew a little bit older, his dad would help him measure out the ingredients and carefully guide his chubby little hands, clutched around the handle of a cup full of flour or oil, to the big red mixing bowl. His favorite part (and the only job his dad trusted him to do without help) was always mixing everything together and watching the pile of ingredients turn into one homogenous mixture. Sometimes, when Peter did an especially good job mixing, Richard would scoop up a little bit of batter from the edge of the bowl with the very tip of his pinky finger and wipe it on the end of Peter’s nose, thanking him for being an extra-special helper.

Peter’s mom watched the pancake-making from her spot at the kitchen table. She loved her husband and son, of course, but didn’t want to be responsible for cleaning up any of the mess. Plus, Richard insisted it was a “father-son tradition” to help them bond or whatever. She didn’t complain, as long as the boys left her kitchen spotless at the end of the meal.

And at the very end, right before pouring the batter out onto the griddle, the father and son would instruct Mary to cover her ears and close her eyes so they could add the secret ingredient. She obliged with a little eye roll (Richard had told her what is was years ago, of course) but was happy to do it for Peter’s sake. Once the boy was sure his mother’s eyes were shut tight and she couldn’t hear anything, he and his dad would mime scooping something out from their chests and adding it to the mixture—love. “Love makes everything better,” they would whisper to each other, and Richard would pour the first pancake onto the griddle with a satisfying sizzle.

The pancakes never quite tasted the same—sometimes they were too dry, other times the batter was so thin that they turned out more like crepes—but Peter didn’t care at all. He cherished the time he got to spend with his dad, who was often busy with work, and the smell of maple syrup always reminded him of the happiest times of his life, before he had tasted the bitterness of tragedy. As Peter took the first bite of pancake every Sunday morning, his mom and dad sat on either side of him, he never felt more loved.

———

The first Sunday after Peter went to live with his aunt and uncle, he refused to get out of bed. He knew his mom and dad were never coming back, which meant no more lazy Sunday mornings with a pile of pancakes in front of him and little patches of flour stuck to his pajamas. He had been in denial ever since that horrible phone call, and it really didn’t sink in until that morning—he would never see his parents again.

Peter wailed and sobbed and screamed into his pillow. May and Ben, still new to the whole parenting thing and with no idea how to comfort a grieving child, tried their best to soothe him with gentle touches and kisses to the side of his head, but Peter was having none of it. He wanted the comforting warmth of his bed at home, the smell of his mother’s perfume in the air, and the sound of his dad rustling through the pantry trying to find the right ingredients for their traditional Sunday meal of just-okay pancakes.

After hours of crying, Peter finally curled up on his uncle’s lap, completely spent. Ben ran his fingers through Peter’s hair and shushed him, telling him over and over that it’s okay and reassuring him that he was loved more than he could ever know. May left the room quietly with a final kiss to Peter’s cheek and a knowing look in her watery eyes.

Just as Peter was about to drift off into an exhausted slumber, his stomach growled loudly, making Ben chuckle despite the awful grief. “It’s past noon and you haven’t even had breakfast yet,” he said softly, rubbing Peter’s back.

Peter gazed up at his uncle’s face, and through the sleepiness and dried tears, Ben looked so much like his father that Peter almost started crying again. Instead, he whispered, “Will you make me some pancakes?”

“Of course,” Ben replied, happy to do anything to provide his nephew some comfort. He scooped Peter up and carried him to the kitchen where he was swiftly deposited onto a chair at the table. May came and sat next to him, holding his hand trying to distract him from his sadness by asking him about school.

Peter watched as Ben pulled out a recipe and mixed everything together. Just as he was about to pour the batter into the pan, Peter suddenly stood up, his hand leaving May’s, and yelled, “WAIT!”

Startled, both May and Ben gave him questioning looks. Suddenly sheepish, Peter explained, “I need to add the secret ingredient.”

Peter watched as his aunt and uncle shared a dubious glance, as if doubting their six-year-old nephew’s baking skills, before Ben threw up his hands and said, “Go for it, buddy.”

Peter shuffled over to the counter and added three scoops of love to the bowl—one from him, one each on behalf of his mom and dad. Ben gave him a funny look, and Peter shyly explained, “Love makes everything better." 

Understanding dawned on Ben’s face, and he scooped Peter up into his arms. Peter wrapped his little legs around his uncle’s waist and squeezed him tight. “Good thing we have a lot of that to go around,” Ben said, and for the first time since his parents died, Peter smiled.

The pancakes tasted different than the ones Peter made with his dad, but if he drowned them in enough maple syrup, he couldn’t really tell. Just for a moment, he basked in the afternoon sunlight streaming in through the apartment’s windows and let himself feel safe and happy and loved.

Later that day, when Peter felt strong enough to talk about the significance of the pancakes without breaking down, he sat down on the couch and tucked himself into his uncle’s side. Ben put an arm around his shoulder and pulled him close.

“Every Sunday, me and my daddy would make pancakes together for breakfast,” Peter said, cupping his hands over his mouth and whispering into his uncle’s ear.

Ben turned to look at him and paused for a moment, as if thinking. “Would you like me to make pancakes with you on Sundays?” he replied just as quietly. “You know, now that your daddy…can’t anymore,” he said, getting a bit choked up. Peter nodded, just a tiny little shake of his head. Ben ruffled his hair and turned back to the TV.

And that was that. Every Sunday morning (or afternoon or evening, if they were busy), Peter made pancakes with his uncle Ben. As Peter got older and Ben’s pancake-making skills improved, they would try new recipes and tweak old ones to find the world’s most perfect pancake. Sometimes, they would add fresh fruit or (if May wasn’t home) chocolate chips. By the time Peter became a teenager, he and Ben had become so good at whipping up their breakfast of choice that they timed themselves to see if they could set new personal records.

The two of them swapped stories (mostly about Richard and Mary) as they cooked, and Peter was so thankful to his uncle for keeping the tradition alive. He loved hearing embarrassing stories about his dad’s childhood growing up with this older brother Ben. Peter may not have many memories of his parents, but most of the ones he did have were mostly of his dad teasingly playing keep-away with the carton of eggs and his mom warming up his maple syrup in the microwave, just the way he liked it. Every Sunday, he relived those moments in his memory, along with newer ones—him and Ben throwing handfuls of flour at each other, May tossing their burnt pancakes around like rock-hard frisbees while the boys tried to fan the smoke away from the smoke detector on the ceiling, and Peter looking dubiously at a small cup of syrup while his aunt and uncle chanted, “Chug! Chug! Chug! Chug!”

On Sunday mornings, no matter what else was going on, Peter was always overcome with the knowledge that he was so, so loved. Not only by May and Ben, who treated him like he was their own son, but by his parents, too. With every bite of syrupy goodness, he knew that his mom and dad had loved him, too, and he was happy. 

Of course, that all changed.

——

When Peter emerged from his room at the compound late one Sunday morning to find Tony Stark flipping pancakes on a griddle, he nearly burst into tears right then and there. 

"Tony?" he said hesitantly, padding lightly into the kitchen.

Tony turned around, spatula still in hand, and grinned at him. Luckily, he didn't seem to notice Peter's emotional state. "Underoos! Nice of you to finally grace me with your presence at..." he paused to check his watch, "11:43 AM. Good grief, it's almost lunchtime and here I am still making breakfast." He glanced surreptitiously at the garbage can, where a small mountain of burnt, misshapen, or otherwise unsatisfactory pancakes where laid to rest.

"Sorry," Peter said (even though he was not at all sorry), hoisting himself up to sit on the counter. "Teenage vigilantes need a lot of sleep."

Tony only hummed in reply, preoccupied with the pancakes. He flipped one over only to find it blackened and burnt. He tipped his head back so his face was turned toward the ceiling and let out a very long and very loud groan before chucking it in the trash. When Peter giggled, Tony whacked him in the arm with the spatula, which only made Peter laugh even harder.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. I'm a genius, went to college at fifteen, and own the biggest tech company in the world, but I can't cook my favorite intern breakfast. Hilarious." He unplugged the griddle and jumped up onto the counter to sit next to Peter.

"I'm your only intern."

"Yeah, and that makes you the favorite by default. You know, if I had more than one, I would totally be making breakfast for my new favorite instead of you."

"Hey!" Peter said in mock offense, but they were both laughing. After a moment, Peter nudged Tony with his shoulder and said, "I can help, if you want."

"Yeah?" Tony smiled softly. "Two geniuses are better than one, right?"

Peter jumped down and immediately started searching for ingredients. Tony told him once or twice where to find things, but other than that, he was content to let Peter do the work for a change. It was only when Peter started adding ingredients to the bowl without even consulting a recipe that Tony decided to intervene.

"Whoa, hold your horses there, buckaroo," he said, moving to take the bowl. "Do you even know what you're doing?"

Peter smiled. "Just trust me," he said, "and maybe hand me an egg?"

"Whatever," Tony replied, reaching for the carton. "They can't be worse than mine."

Ten minutes later, Peter and Tony sat side by side at the table, a gigantic mound of perfectly golden, fluffy pancakes and a spread of every topping imaginable in front of them. This was something Peter never thought he'd have again--a pancake-filled morning with a man he looked up to, and he found himself giddy with excitement as Tony took his first bite and moaned in happiness. "This is the best pancake I've ever had. Seriously, kid, how did you get so good at this?! And why didn't I know about it?"

Giddiness gone, Peter looked down at his plate and nervously drew circles in the syrup with his fork. He knew these questions would come eventually. He took a deep breath and said, "When I was little, my dad and I would make pancakes together every Sunday morning." Tony stopped chewing, listening intently, his brow furrowed. "He always said it was our time for father-son bonding. And when my parents died, even though he wasn't my real dad, my uncle started doing the same." Peter dropped his fork, suddenly not hungry anymore, and met Tony's eyes.

"After Ben...you know," he said, and Tony nodded in understanding, "May and I tried to keep the tradition alive, but it was too hard." Peter had picked up his fork again and was now twisting it around in his clenched fist. "It hurt too much to do it without him, so we stopped." His voice was almost a whisper now.

Tony was quiet for a moment, as if thinking hard about something. His fingers twitched on the table for a few seconds before he finally rested his hand gently on Peter's knee. "Last week, I called your aunt to ask what kind of food I should have stocked when you come over, since you're too shy to make any special requests." Peter blushed ever so slightly, and Tony squeezed his knee. "Among other things, she told me that you really, really like pancakes, and that you would love it if I made you some," he said, leaning in a bit, "but didn't say why."

Peter sat straight up and twisted around to fully face Tony, wide-eyed, causing the hand to slip from his knee. "It was all a trick! She wanted you to start the tradition up again! It's been a couple years since I've had a _dad_ in my life, you know, so now that I have you--" He cut off abruptly, realizing what he just said. Tony just smiled, much to Peter's irritation. "I mean, a male role model or caretaker or...you know what I mean!" He sputtered, hands gesturing wildly and face beet red.

Tony took pity on him. "Yeah, I know," he said softly. "I get it."

Peter calmed down a little and sighed with relief. "So..." he said, a bit awkwardly, not quite meeting Tony's eyes.

"Do you want to? Make pancakes with me, I mean," Tony said, rubbing the back of his neck. "We couldn't do every Sunday, but maybe every time you spend the night here?" he asked hesitantly.

Peter's eyes welled up with tears, but he didn't let any of them fall. "You would do that for me?" he asked, voice filled with hope and maybe just a little bit of wonder.

"Of course." The lines around Tony's eyes deepened, as if he was trying not to smile. 

Emboldened, Peter suddenly reached out and threw his arms around Tony, squeezing him tighter than he probably should've, considering his super strength. Tony hardly had time to react before Peter murmured a quick "Thank you" into his chest and pulled away, brushing his lips against Tony's cheek as he straightened up. The two of them had barely made eye contact before they burst out laughing--not because it was funny, but because they couldn't contain the happiness inside of them. Peter was crying, both from laughing so hard and because of the realization that he and Tony, together, had the thing that makes everything better. (Tony's eyes were wet, too, but he'd deny it 'til kingdom come.)

After the laughter had died down and Peter's tears had dried, Tony slung one of his arms around the back of Peter's chair. Peter leaned his head back so that it was resting on Tony's elbow. "You're not off the hook yet, kid," Tony said after a minute. Peter met his eyes in confusion. "I expect you to teach me all of your pancake knowledge. Secret ingredients and everything."

Peter shook his head side to side and briefly closed his eyes. "You're not gonna like it."

"Oh, come on." Tony poked him in the side. "What is it? Cinnamon? Vanilla?"

"Love," Peter replied with a smirk. Tony made retching noises. "It makes everything better. That's why ours were so goooood," he added in a singsong-y voice.

"That's the most disgusting thing I've ever heard. Sorry, the deal's off. No more pancakes. I'm emotionally constipated, remember?" Tony winked.

Peter just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but you love me. You even said I'm your favorite intern."

"And you said I'm your _male role model_ ," Tony replied, snickering.

Peter threw a pancake at his face.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! I've read a lot of fic in this fandom, but I've never written any before (and I don't have concrete plans to write any more). This idea just bloomed in my head and I couldn't resist writing and posting it!


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